28. 28
Hesitate – Jonas Brothers
“ S ky’s turning,” I mutter, glancing up at the clouds stretched thick across the sky. “Storm’ll hit soon.”
I get no response. Zoe’s still glued to her phone, thumb tapping steadily.
Hasn’t looked up once in the past hour. Not since we pulled out of the city.
The silence isn’t awkward. It’s just… loaded.
Like her whole body’s wired tight, and if she speaks, it’ll all unravel.
I check the rearview, then glance sideways at her again.
Her brows pinch slightly as she types, focused on whatever message she’s writing.
The sky darkens. Fast.
She finally looks up and squints through the windscreen. “Oh shit. Where did all that come from?”
“Dunno, might’ve been building for the last hundred Ks while you’ve been texting the entire population of New South Wales.”
She huffs a small laugh, low and tired, but it’s something.
After we left the city, we stopped at a café just off the highway.
She refused food. Claimed she wasn’t hungry.
Said it with that same polite distance she’s been wrapping herself in all day.
So I ordered her that green grass drink thing she swears by, and she accepted it with a soft thank you.
What she doesn’t know is that I threw in a blueberry muffin and a chicken sandwich before we left. Both still warm, tucked in the bottom of the takeaway bag between us. Just in case.
She said she wanted to head back to Wattle Creek.
No point staying overnight anymore, and I didn’t argue with her.
Time crawled as I waited outside that office, pacing footpaths and watching strangers walk by.
But now it’s slipped past without me realising.
It’s already four. We’ve been driving half the day, halfway home, and the weather’s turning to shit.
The windshield wipers start working harder now, and I squint through the blur.
If the parts had arrived earlier this week, this wouldn’t be a problem. I should’ve driven my ute. Hell, I should’ve insisted. The car rattles slightly beneath my grip.
In minutes, the rain thickens. Not a light drizzle, but sheets of it, hammering against the glass, and visibility goes to hell.
Zoe shifts in her seat. “Michael—”
“I know. I need to pull over. Can you check if there’s a servo or motel near here?”
Her fingers move fast. “There’s something two Ks up. Says it’s a roadhouse with fuel and a few rooms.”
“Good. Hold on.” I flick on the hazard lights and ease off the accelerator.
Without thinking, my hand drops to her thigh.
Just meant to calm her, to steady her when the car jolts over a dip in the road—but the contact sends a jolt through me instead.
Heat shoots up my arm, settling heavy in my chest. Her muscles tighten under my palm, and for a second, I wonder if I should pull away.
But I don’t. I can’t. My grip stays firm, steady, like maybe I can ground us both through the storm outside and the storm inside me.
The shitty tyres hiss against the wet asphalt as I guide the car off the main stretch, following the vague shape of the road through the blur.
She’s gripping her seat now, knuckles pale, jaw tight as she stares straight ahead. I stay quiet and just keep driving.
The sign flickers through the greyness as we pull in.
Driftwood Inn. The ‘D’, however, blinks twice before dying entirely, leaving riftwood Inn pulsing in pale yellow above the rain-slicked car park.
I ease into a spot near the front, rain still slamming down hard enough to drown out every thought in my head. Zoe’s already unclipping her belt.
“This is it?” she asks, peering through the windshield, unimpressed.
“You got any other roadside spas you wanna recommend?”
She exhales through her nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite an agreement. We sit in silence for a second, both staring at the wall of water outside.
“On three?” I say.
She nods. “You count.”
“One… two…”
We both throw our doors open and make a run for it.
The rain is cold and fast, slicing through my jumper and soaking my jeans in seconds.
Zoe’s shrieking something behind me, but I can’t hear a thing over the downpour.
We hit the entrance right as thunder splits the air.
She bursts through the door, soaked to the bone and breathless, rainwater glinting off her skin.
I have no idea how she managed to sprint through a downpour like that in those heels—and I’m not asking.
Honestly? It’s hot as hell.
Inside, it’s dead quiet. Smells faintly of dust and something deep-fried a decade ago.
An old man sits behind the counter, newspaper stretched between his hands, glasses sliding low on his nose. Doesn’t even look up.
Zoe steps forward, wringing out the ends of her hair. “Hi. Do you have a room we can use? Just to freshen up, change clothes?”
“Overnight,” I add, swiping water off my face.
She turns to me, brows lifted. “We’re staying? It’ll pass. We’ll wait it out and then go.”
I nod toward the window behind us, where rain streaks in sheets across the glass. “Freckles, that’s not easing up in the next hour or two. Already checked the weather app. It’s gonna keep pissing down till morning.”
She crosses her arms. “Yeah, well, those apps are always wrong.”
I shrug. “Maybe. But I’m not taking my chances. Not in that car.”
Her eyes roll so hard I’m surprised they come back down again. She turns back to the man. “Fine. Two rooms, please.”
He peeks over his paper, gives us a look that says he’s two minutes from retirement and not paid enough to care, then slides a single key across the desk.
“Only one room.”
Zoe blinks rapidly. “You serious?”
His newspaper goes back up. I stare at the key for a second, then pick it up, hiding the grin already tugging at my mouth. This day’s been long as hell, and she’s been wound so tight since the second she stepped out of that office.
But right now? Watching her storm off with wet shoes and a muttered curse? I’ll admit it—I like the idea of being stuck in one room with her way more than I probably should. I follow, all sopping wet with a smug grin.
The room’s a shoebox. Which I expected for a place like this.
The ceiling fan squeaks as it spins. A single, tired lightbulb dangles overhead. There’s a generic landscape painting hung crookedly on the wall—a vast mountainscape, which is probably meant to be calming. That doesn’t work. A small TV rests in the corner. Bathroom to the side. And the kicker?
Only one bed.
A double. Barely.
I glance at her. She’s frozen in the doorway, staring at it. I step past, drop her bag on the floor, and kick my sneakers off. “Well,” I point to the thick duvet and blanket resting over the bed, “at least we won’t freeze.”
She glares at me. “Don’t even start.”
I throw my hands up in mock innocence. “Didn’t say a thing.”
Zoe eyes the chair in the corner like it might bite her. It’s got a threadbare cushion and questionable stains, the legs uneven. She crouches slightly, inspects it from arm’s length. “If I sit on this and get some kind of rash or bug bites, I’m blaming you.”
Her fingers prod the fabric like it might squirm. I gasp loudly, the sound is sharp and over-the-top-dramatic.
She physically recoils. “What?”
A shit-eating grin pulls at my mouth. “Kidding.”
“You’re the actual worst,” she says before lowering herself onto the chair. When she finally settles, her shoulders drop. A quiet exhale slips out of her, like the air’s been punched from her lungs.
I glance over, watching her for a second longer than I should. She’s soaked, hair clinging to her neck, clothes damp and clinging. But it’s her face that gets me—tired, tight around the eyes. Still wired from everything she left behind this morning.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” Her response is too fast. Too hollow.
I lean back on the bed, arms crossed behind my head. “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”
She stiffens. “I’m not pretending.”
“Right.”
She shoots me a look. “I’m not.”
“You just walked out of a negotiation with your dirtbag ex-husband, who tried to grab you in a boardroom, and now you’re stranded in a one-bed dingy motel with me. But sure. Totally fine.”
“I am fine, Michael.”
The way she says my name makes something twist in my gut. She stands, arms wrapping tight around her own waist, pacing a few steps across the room. “I don’t need you to validate how I feel.”
I sit up. “I’m not. I’m just saying you don’t have to act like everything’s under control when it clearly isn’t.”
“Well, maybe that’s the only thing keeping me upright right now.” She falters, breath hitching. And I see it—the unravelling behind her eyes, the weight in her shoulders she’s been pretending isn’t there.
“Zoe—”
“No,” she snaps, stepping back, arms tightening around her middle. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you feel sorry for me.” Her voice lowers. “Like I’m some fragile thing you have to tiptoe around. I’m not.”
“I know you’re not.” I sit up, the tension pulling tight across my chest. “That’s the damn problem. You’re strong to a fault. You act like you’ve got something to prove, like letting anyone see you fall apart makes you weak.”
“I don’t need to be handled, Michael.”
“I’m not trying to handle you.” I stand now too, unable to stay seated with her pacing like that, voice sharp and eyes flashing. “I’m trying to be honest with you. And all I’m asking is for you to give me the same damn thing in return.”
She shakes her head, teeth clenched. “You want honesty? Fine. I’m tired. I’m angry. And I’m sick of being told how I should feel. I don’t want to talk about Liam, or the lawyers, or how I’m coping. I just want to breathe without someone picking me apart.”
My hands flex at my sides. “I’m not picking you apart. I see you, Zoe.”
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t move. “And what exactly do you see?”
I let my gaze drop. Once. Slowly.